


Summermay

by Vana



Series: Original fiction [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, might as well!, more original work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana





	Summermay

Summermay, they called her — a sunny name for a dark winter’s child. They hoped she’d open like the flowers, ripening under the sun. But the girl stayed cold and huddled, hidden inside herself. The family couldn’t say why. They tried to help, but their help was met with a baleful glare and silence, always silence.

**

Sometimes in the bright late afternoon, she almost felt warm, she almost wanted to reach out. The people, she thought, loved her. The family — so foreign — wanted her love back. She tried, she forced her whole body into the thought: Love them back. But she couldn’t.

**

Summermay, they pleaded with her. The family, the elders, the babies when she was old enough to watch babies. Talk to us, we want you to know us. Your family is here, your history, your life is here. Your voice is here.

**  
   
When she started her cycle she left them. She couldn’t stand to look at them one more second, their stricken eyes, wet and doglike. Even the ones who had brought her forth meant nothing to her. She became afraid of the strength of her anger, of what the red meant. And so she walked away. 

**

Summermay, they mourned. We tried to love you, we tried to hold you. We tried. You were part of us ... your family. We were within you, around you, and you repelled us, time after time. But after some time they stopped mourning and went on with their lives.

**

She wandered the valleys and the plains around her homeland, killing what she needed to eat, chewing leaves she didn’t know were safe but didn’t care. Strangers kept away from her and animals ran until she caught them. Once a foreign man, thin and pale, asked her name. She opened her mouth to curse him, choked, stabbed him in the chest with her blade and ran away.

**

Summermay, they sighed when a visitor asked what happened to the dark and silent daughter. She had to leave, she hated us, she didn’t want us anymore. Anymore, the visitor laughed. She didn’t want you ever. 

**

Winter fell and she had no place to keep warm. She huddled under skins, shivering. At night when she knew nobody would be around she screamed out her rage at the cold, no words, just sound. A fire of sound, but one that didn’t warm her — it only made her colder. She fell asleep numb and white.

**

Summermay, they laughed, she was too good for us. She’s gone now to marry a prince, a prince who doesn’t care if she talks, someone much better than the men here. Much handsomer, they assured themselves, dissolving into mirth. A land of silence. The people were happier without her, without the constant effort to make her love them.

**

Under the frozen sun she lay half-dead, until a traveler found her. He picked her up and rolled her in blankets and carried her home, keeping her body pressed against his for warmth. She drowsed on the horse he rode. Once her eyes flew open; she focused on him, her pupils dilated. He opened his mouth to speak but her eyes fell closed again and she slept. He hoped he’d be in time.

**

Summermay, they wondered when they stopped laughing at her anger. They wondered whatever happened to her and if she was — well, not happy, but if she was any calmer, any less angry. Wherever she was, they knew, she probably wasn’t happy. They imagined someone else trying to make friends with her and they smiled again, glad she’d moved on.

**

The family of the man she’d killed hovered around her, pressing warmth to her skin, saying prayers over her closed eyes. The rider thumbed her eyes open to see if they’d clouded over, not believing she was alive though her heart beat. She opened them and a weak fire arose in them and then it went out. She screamed; she knew she was dead, because she was face to face with her victim, in the underworld.

**

Summermay, she gasped out when he asked her name. She was dead and with her prey; she cringed away expecting cruelty and punishment. They all nursed her back to health while the shivers came from her soul and not her warmed body. They didn’t understand her but they knew the word was her name. Summermay, they called her, and nodded agreement, not knowing its meaning.

**

The springtime came and she was able to sit up. They carried her to the grass and sat her down in the wildflowers. The man she thought she’d killed never left her side, so she knew she was still dead, even though the underworld was nicer than she had thought. She remembered her family back in the living, with a pang of regret. She wondered if they knew she was gone now.

**

Summermay, the man who had saved her said, and took her hand and placed it over his heart. He didn’t have the words to make her understand. She cringed away, but didn’t run, even though her strength had returned. He held her hand there until the early spring winds blew over the grass and chilled the evening air.

**

There was nothing to run from. They were both dead, and besides, he wasn’t punishing her. She liked him with her, constant quiet presence asking nothing of her but her company. She looked for the mark where she killed him, but couldn’t find it and decided such things disappeared in the afterlife. She still had scars from cutting herself cleaning her food. Maybe the marks only disappeared if someone was murdered. She shuddered in the warmth of the spring; she wished she hadn’t killed him.

**

Summermay, the traveler whispered into her hair, lying back on the grass with her in late spring when the ground never cooled. He covered her body with his and she said nothing, but she was warm. They didn’t talk, but they held each other and watched the sunrise. At dawn they walked together to eat and the families looked away from them and smiled.

**

She tried to learn his language. She pointed at objects and learned their words. She pointed at him and learned his name; at the flowers and learned theirs. One morning she took a breath and pointed at herself. He smiled. Summermay, he said. She nodded. She lay down and crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking death. He tugged at her arm for her to wake up. She pointed where she had lain. What was the word for death? He didn’t understand, but she would try until he did.

**

Summermay, he told her when they could talk to each other more clearly. I don’t know why you want to talk about death. 

I — and you — we are dead, she said. She wondered what would happen when she said it. Which deity had forgotten she had killed this man that she loved?

He shook his head, and she prepared to try again. But he understood. No, we live. Look, the earth. Our hearts. We live.

She took a deep breath. I killed you, she told him. And then I died.

And she waited.

**

He talked to his family about what she’d said. His brother was missing; had gone out and never come back. How Summermay, gentle, small, happy, could kill his brother didn’t seem to make sense. His father said to drive her out. But his mother stood up, terrible and calm, and told her husband: She is my daughter now. She carries my grandchild. If she goes, I go with her.

**

Summermay, he said, approaching. It was not I that you... . My brother. My twin. He almost cried, but held her face as she tried to look away. And you — and I — we live, he said.

She nodded, numb, cold again. She stood up and prepared to go. They weren’t dead, but it was still only a happy dream that had now ended. She would go back to her family, talk to them, make up a story because she couldn’t stand to tell this one.

No, he said. Where are you going? 

Your family — not here. Your brother. I’m ... sorry. And she turned away, tears stinging her eyes bitterly. 

Summermay, he said. You replaced him. His death brought you here, to us. He took his hand and placed it, warm, over her heart. Stay, he said, and live with us.

**

Summermay, he whispered through white, clenched lips as she silently bore their first child. The little girl yelled and cooed from her first gulp of air. She rested on her mother’s breast and was never quiet. Her father gazed adoringly on them both, but Summermay cried looking at her. Their baby looked like the family she’d left behind.

When the baby girl was old enough to walk, the three set off. The air carried their voices far across the wildflower-strewn plains.


End file.
